Whisky Lullabye
by Your Sweet Escape
Summary: AU, I guess. Implied Character death. After season two. Someone else to be left behind.


**Disclaimer. I don't know. This popped into my head. Someone else Dean left behind. Something to think on. **

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The empty whiskey bottle clattered off the bed and shattered into a million shimmering pieces on the dirty wooden floor. The sound was piercing, and the thought of the glass's sharp edge dug into her chest. Rolling over on her stomach, she stared down at the glittery wreckage. The afternoon sun played inside the jagged shapes, casting rainbows on her blanket. The memory of glass slicing her skin didn't hold a candle to the pain she was feeling now. She followed the sun beam to the window, hardened sleep and tears pinching the corners of her eyes. The tree outside bounced gaily as the squirrels and birds went about the cheery business.

Cheery.

Just the word brought about a fresh wave of depression. Suddenly the sun was too bright in the window and she buried her face in her pillow once again. The pain flared up again. Nothing was ever going to get better. Acid bubbled up her throat. Reflexively she rolled off the bed, wincing when she remembered the broken glass. Stumbling against the pull of gravity, she somehow found the bathroom. She threw up, stomach acid threatening to leave sores in her mouth and throat. Feeling as if she was riding the teacups at a carnival, she let herself fall to the side but gripped the toilet seat so she wouldn't be thrown all the way around.  
When the ride ended she let her hands slide off the handle bar. Her back slumped forward, throwing her head against her chest. Neither the spinning headache, sore throat or bleeding feet compared to the pain in her chest. Realizing how weak she had become, she began to sob. How could she let herself fall so hard? What had happened? It was a small comfort that she couldn't remember certain particulars.

Good.

She was beginning to forget. That's something to drink to. Her feet slipped in the small puddle of blood on the linoleum as she clumsily got to her feet. Leaning heavily on the wall to keep her balance, she followed it to a dresser. Fingers fumbling, she turned on the radio, and her heart leapt at the song recognition and she turned it up until she couldn't hear herself cry. Leaning against the dresser, but avoiding the mirror, she looked around the room for some more relief. The music was helping, but it couldn't reach the source of the pain. Sighting her target, she pushed off the dresser and ungainly made her way towards the bedside table, once again walking across the broken glass.  
Twisting off the cap of her last, whole bottle, she pressed the cold rim to her lips letting the only medicine she knew slide easily down her throat. The floor beneath her suddenly rocked forward, sending her backwards a few steps. Once again unstable, she collapsed on the bed filled with a new sense of bliss. Taking a good long gulp, she felt the alcohol open her body up to the music. She could feel it intermingling with her blood and soothing the pain. The edge faded and she took another swig, fully reviving the warmth. The ceiling started to go in and out of focus. She felt her stomach twist and her chest tighten. She had to throw up again, but she didn't want to ruin the moment by getting up.

"Hey!" A man yelled outside her door. "Turn that damn noise down!" He banged a few times on the thick slab of plastic, "And I need another night's money or you gotta get out! Thirty bucks, do you hear me!!"

She took a deep breath. Reaching into a drawer in the nightstand beside the bed she pulled out a thick wad of bills. It was all she had left. It was everything she had left. She counted out three hundreds. Shakily, she pushed herself off the hard mattress and to the door. "Here," she said, her voice hoarse from being sick, drunk, and sad. As soon as the cash was in his hand she slammed the door. The radio stayed on.

She picked up the bottle again and took a second swig. The amber liquid stung her already sore throat, but set nicely in her stomach. She eased herself back onto the bed. The bottle suddenly became heavy in her hands and she placed in blindly back on the table.

_Clink._

It had hit something. Groaning, she turned herself so she could see. It was a pocket knife. A black handled, constantly sharpened pocket knife. Her stomach twisted again and she ran to the bathroom. Kneeling in blood, every sip she had downed came rushing back up. Seconds later, her forehead was on the cool tile, the scent of blood making her drowsy, and the pain in her chest pushing out fresh tears as it pounded against her rib cage.

Damn him. Damn him, damn him, damn him! The tears came harder. Damn him for always being the hero, damn him for thinking he could save anybody, and damn him for lying to her! Sobs racked her weakened body. She had trusted him! Had clung to everything she could. His leather jacket, his smirk, the way his green eyes shined when he provoked his brother, and the way she felt when those eyes flashed her way.

She had been there his last day. They had gone to the beach. It was cold. He was laughing, brushing the sand off of her, telling her to remember. It had dragged him off, past the shore line, into the waves, barking and snarling. He had told her to remember.

She had been there for his brother. Held him as he shook with wave after wave of despair. Consoled him as he blamed himself for everything. Talked with him through three days of depression and suicide attempts. It was the fourth that caught him. He had left a note telling her to forget.

Now who was here to hold her? No one but Jack, and he could only stay for so long. She pushed herself to her knees and crawled back into the other room. Grabbing the whiskey off the table, she gulped the half-full bottle until it was empty. She didn't want to remember, didn't want to forget. All she wanted was another bottle. A big one. One that could hold her. One that went with the music.


End file.
